


The Moves of Jennifer Steinkamp

by aldiara



Category: Alles was zählt
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Drama, Friendship/Love, Multi, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-09
Updated: 2011-05-09
Packaged: 2017-10-19 04:27:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/196875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldiara/pseuds/aldiara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story of the second time Roman fell in love, which means, naturally, that this is a story all about Jennifer Charlotte Annabelle Steinkamp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Moves of Jennifer Steinkamp

**Author's Note:**

> For Momo - happy birthday!
> 
> Back when AWZ canon was awesomely layered and generally consistent, there was a wealth of intriguing backstory to explore, including two things that have always nagged at me insistently:  
> 1) Roman has admitted to having been genuinely in love three times ([ep356](http://youtu.be/aC2bGIraILw)). With Marc and Deniz taking the first and third spot, I’ve always wondered about No. 2 (no, bloody Andrew doesn't count!)  
> 2) The events unfolding between Jenny and Lars when they first met, and Roman’s extreme insistence that the Steinkamps not hire Lars in the late 500s. Details were required.  
> Also, those who have watched the early AWZ eps might recognise a certain stunt that Jenny pulled on Diana once. I liked the idea that she might’ve learned it from Roman.
> 
> Big thanks to my fabulous brainthird Lilithilien for the super-quick beta! <333
> 
> For those who care about such things, [this](http://youtu.be/y4fcqHVkxqE) is the piece I had in mind for Jenny's competition music.

As usual, things begin and end with Jennifer. It's she who decides they need to learn more about choreography; she who has a screaming row with her mother about it – no, with the _team manager_ , Roman automatically corrects himself – she who decides a six-week intensive course in Oberstdorf is just what they need.

Her mother doesn't give in easily, Roman will grant her that. Secretly and despite the many times he's slept over at his best friend's home, he's terrified and thrilled alike by Simone Steinkamp.

He's in the ballet room with them as they argue, doing his stretches at the far side of the room and trying to be invisible. It isn't very hard. The Steinkamp women during one of their face-offs are much like two sphinxes in a book he once read: their focus on each other is so intense that anyone who tried to step between them would be reduced to ashes. Roman has often wondered if that fiery streak merely lies dormant in amiable, cheery-minded little Vanessa or whether the kid is taking entirely after her father.

"If you stopped being so self-involved for two seconds, Jennifer, and let me tell you what I've got planned for this summer…"

"I don't care what you've got planned, Mama,” Jenny says impatiently, hazel eyes flashing. “I can tell: More of the same old training routine, with that boring old woman who treats us like kids at ballet practice and is too arthritic to do any of the moves herself.”

Mrs. Steinkamp’s red-painted lips thin in disapproval. “You know perfectly well I’ve hired a new trainer, Jennifer, but we must keep Miss Rosenthal on until her contract expires. Mr. Hartwig will take over at the end of the summer.”

“After the qualifiers! After the regionals! What good is that? We’ll still be stuck with sub-quality training for three months, and with Nadja Roschinski off to Lepizig for the rest of the year, we won’t have any choreography sessions at all! How are we supposed to win medals that way?”

Roman bows low into his stretch to hide his grin when he sees Simone Steinkamp’s resolve waver. Jennifer’s used the magic word; it doesn’t take much imagination to see tiny little medals shining in Simone’s eyes. The argument carries on for a while, but Roman no longer pays attention; he already knows Jennifer has won.

*

It’s his first visit to the renowned skating training centre, and despite Jenny’s warnings, Roman exits the tiny train station at Oberstdorf with an appalled look on his face and long-banished anxiety lifting his gorge, making him swallow down his instinctive dread. Gunzenhausen is a town like this, with its slender church spire and picturesque holiday pensions. For four years, he’s barely thought of his home town at all, wallowing in all the conveniences Essen had to offer. He’s travelled Europe, chasing after championships and training seminars like this one, and always he clung to the big cities and their grit and glitter. To be greeted now by noonday quiet and the far-off clang of cows’ bells makes the world he’s reinvented lurch dangerously beneath his feet.

On a day like today, his mother would be making dumplings, the kitchen hot with steam. On a day like today, Flo would be crouched over the kitchen table, tongue caught between his teeth as he assembled one of his beloved Lego castles.

Suddenly Jenny is there, her slender arm strong around his shoulders. He realises that she must have said something before, but he didn’t listen, his mind full of forgotten church bells and his mother’s flour-dusted smile and soft voice.

Jenny’s voice isn’t soft. It rarely is. “Roman,” she says, shaking him lightly. “They’re just cows. Pull yourself together, and let’s go get a cab.”

She nudges his temple with her forehead, too forceful to be comforting, but he can smell the scent of her expensive shampoo, and her impatient tone pulls him back into reality. He smiles at her.

“Yes ma’am.”

*

They check into their hotel, and that afternoon, they go to inspect the training centre. Despite himself, Roman is impressed. The single-storey building is low but wide, the reception area a sprawl of different services and floor maps. The receptionist hands them brochures, explaining the lay-out.

“You can’t really look around before courses start,” she tries to explain, but Jenny waves the objection away with a negligent gesture and a drop of her father’s name, and the place is theirs. The ice rink is smaller than at the Steinkamp Centre, but the gym is vast by comparison, work-out equipment and mirrors everywhere they look.

“Huh,” says Jenny, fingers trailing the dark upholstery of a bench press. “My parents should invest in more of these.”

“Where, in the lobby? Or the ice rink?” Roman mocks. Nevertheless, he leans back against the smooth surface, curving his hands around the bar bell. Immediately, Jenny is at his head, giving him an upside-down smirk.

“Sure you can handle that? Want me to spot you?”

Roman pokes his tongue out at her and lifts, without giving her the satisfaction of checking the weight first. _Holy fuck, that’s heavy._ “I don’t need your help, Steinkamp.”

Her grin broadens as she leans over him, long fingers sliding down his torso. “You sure about that?”

Roman rolls his eyes, although the weight of the bar bell makes his arms tremble. “Don’t flatter yourself.” She’s done this since she was thirteen, planting a cheek kiss too close to his mouth, mussing his hair, touching him when touching was not required. He’s not entirely sure what she means by it, if anything; whether it’s some de facto Jennifer Steinkamp badge of honour to be won, _rattle the gay guy, see what happens_ , or whether she simply needs these touches to make sure he’s touchable the way her parents, friends, even her little sister aren’t. No one invites Jennifer Steinkamp to touch them. Not unless there’s ulterior gain.

“Hi. Can I help you?” Roman jerks his head up at the energetic voice. A young woman is standing in the doorway, one brow inquisitively raised. She’s blonde, freckled, wearing workout clothes; pretty in a sporty, unfussy sort of way.

Jenny smiles her competition smile at her, radiant and insincere. “Hello. We’re just looking around. We’re with the ice skating summer course for choreography.”

“Ah, yes.” The young woman smiles, visibly letting down her guard. “With Lars Berger?”

“Yes.”

“You’re early.”

Jenny shrugs. “Like I said… just looking around.”

Roman can feel the tendrils of rivalry between them almost immediately. It’s an acquired skill, one he has learned by heart in the twelve years that he’s known Jenny. There are no wildcards with Jennifer, and no unknowns. Until proven differently, any other woman is competition. He doesn’t think the amiable blonde is even aware of the undercurrent, but it’s there.

The blonde girl smiles. “By all means. As it happens, we’ll see each other in here quite a lot. My name is Anna Lundquist. You’ll be doing strength training with me.”

Jennifer sizes her up, smiles thinly, shrugs. “If you’re up to it.”

Anna is good; her friendly expression never wavers. “Okay, then. See you Monday.”

*

They have their separate rooms in the only hotel in town that Jenny declared “tolerable,” but since they’re both double rooms, Roman spends half the night in hers, comfortably wrapped in the unclaimed bed’s duvet as they watch one of the daft thrillers that Jenny likes so much.

Roman isn’t paying attention. “Do you think we’ll do okay?” he asks. Self-confidence, to him, is still a daily exercise as much in need of constant reinforcement as the stretches and weight lifts he performs each day, and people like Anna Lundquist, radiant and friendly and oozing reassurance, never fail to remind him of his own shortcomings.

Jennifer snorts and flops down on the bed beside him. “Of course we will. Hell, it’ll probably be boring.” She reaches out to pluck at the fraying seam of his t-shirt.

Roman frowns at her. “I thought this was hardcore. I thought you wanted us to come.”

Jennifer shrugs, rolling onto her stomach so she ends up flank to flank with him, and reaches out for the bowl of chips at the end of the bed.

“Anything’s better than Miss Rosenthal’s routines. Besides, have you actually heard of Lars Berger?”

Roman’s only paid peripheral attention to her week-long ramblings about their course instructor. “Er, yes?”

She rolls her eyes at him, not fooled. “I couldn’t care less about the course, but his first two ice revues have been a real hit, and rumour has it he’s looking for new talent for his third one. I’m not going to plod along meekly under my mother’s thumb, winning medals for the Centre, Roman. I want my own career.”

Roman grimaces, not drunk enough on the bad movie and a bottle of red wine to accept her schemes unquestioningly. “Where did you hear that?”

She smiles, languid and smug, nudging his shoulder with her own. “A little bird told me. He’s looking for a male and a female part. What do you say, Schatz? Ready to rock the world of ice shows?”

He smiles back; he can’t help it. Sometimes he feels like Jenny is the engine that propels him forward when his own rusted gears would squeak and jam in terror or protest. For years she’s done this, casually assuming he was more daring than he was, sweeping him along. When his first and only steady boyfriend left him, she’d show up at his doorstep every day, bringing inane movies, takeaway food, and self-absorbed gossip; occasionally scoffing at his misery, sneering, “Marc WHO?” It was she who herded him to training those first few awful days when all he wanted to do was curl up and die; her who pushed coloured pills into his hands and dragged him out to her favourite nightclubs; her who nagged and insisted and waved training schedules in his face until he agreed to look at them because it was less trouble than to refuse her. Rarely were there any hugs or pep-talks; that’s not the way that Jenny functions. Her sympathy is scratchy, but effective.

Roman brushes fine hair back from her temple, drops a kiss onto her bare shoulder. “If you say so.”

She beams. “That’s the spirit.”

*

They’re gathered in the ballet room, which is much larger than at the Steinkamp Centre, with training mats and ballet bars lining the length and breadth of the room. Anna Lundquist awaits them with a smile and a clipboard, ticking names off as she reads them. Her sleek ponytail bounces in what to Roman, drunk on too much wine and vodka mixers from the night before, seems an annoyingly energetic manner.

Bored with the formalities, Roman lets his gaze wander, taking the measure of his course mates. Himself and Jenny included, there’s only seven of them. A few of them – like Bianca, the thick-accented Bavarian girl, and Ludovica and Tatjana, the Czech twins – Roman knows already, having crossed paths with them at various juniors’ competitions. The other two are strangers to him, but they all share the same streak of determination, showing clearly in their faces and the rigid posture of their bodies. They’re here to get better. To wipe each other off the ice at future competitions.

There’s only one other male skater, a gangly, pimple-faced teenager by the name of Paul Pradel. He can’t be more than fourteen and sports the most atrocious training pants Roman has ever seen, neon-green spandex, baggy at the knees and butt. Roman sizes up his physical assets, noting the awkward way he walks and bends and nearly falls during a simple arabesque, and decides he’s no danger, at least not for a few years.

“Alright.” Anna drops her clipboard to the floor with a resounding smack and gives them a challenging grin. “That’s administration done. You guys ready to sweat?”

“I’m ready for some actual _choreography_ training,” Jenny murmurs, just loud enough to be heard. Anna pays her no heed, and soon enough they are too busy struggling with their trembling muscles to wonder when their actual course program might start. By the time Anna is done with them, they’re gasping and exhausted; Roman’s blue t-shirt is sticking disgustingly to his back and chest and his arms feel wobbly as pudding.

“No worries,” Anna says pitilessly, making marks on their course sheets. “We’ll have you in proper shape by the time you leave.”

 _Huh_ , thinks Roman. _I thought I_ was _in shape._

Anna is telling them about the personalised training schedules she’s planning for them when the door to the gym room opens and a tall guy strides in, clutching a cup of takeaway coffee and frowning at them all over the rim of his square, black-rimmed glasses.

“Hey. This the new batch?” He’s broad-shouldered and casually graceful, with messy dark hair and stubble shading his cheeks. He’s also about twenty years younger than Roman has imagined this magically talented choreographer to be; this guy can’t be more than five years older than himself.

Anna meets the man halfway and stands up on her tiptoes to press a quick kiss on his lips. “Yes, they are. And you’re late.”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“Slacker,” Anna says, but fondly. Belatedly, Roman spots the slender band of gold on her right ring finger, matching the ring on the dark-haired man’s hand. _So much for hitting on your teachers_.

The tall guy shrugs and kisses her again. Anna lets him, but only for a moment; then she plants her hand against his chest, pushing away, and turns towards the group of exhausted young skaters.

“Guys, I’m sure some of you have already heard of him, but this slowpoke is Lars Berger. He’ll be your choreography instructor for the next six weeks.”

Lars gives them a negligent wave with the hand that isn’t holding his coffee. “Hello. Let’s see what you can do, shall we?”

The young skaters stare at him, appalled, and the faintest grin tugs up the young man’s lips. “What, don’t tell me you’re wiped already? I thought you were pros. Get up. On the ice in ten.”

*

Jenny’s performance is flawless, as ever. Hers is the last analysis for the day, the others already gathered at the boards, breathing hard and trading water bottles and towels. They gradually fall silent as they watch Jenny skate, as Roman knew they would. She lifts off the ice as if it cost no effort, spins precisely, lands as soft as morning mist. Even her ponytail whips round in perfect symmetry, not a hair out of place. Watching with the others from the boards, Roman swallows the all too familiar taste of envy, sweet-rotten like stale beer. When she finally drops into her bow, graceful and smiling, he remembers to breathe.

The music dies with a harsh echoing sound as Lars hits the stop button on the CD player with rather too much force. He steps into the rink with no regard for the treachery of the smooth ice beneath his street shoes, and looks down at Jenny in dispassionate appraisal.

“Boring,” he states curtly.

Jenny’s glowing smile disappears faster than Roman can blink. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Jenny straightens, her fine brows crinkling in a frown. “What did I do wrong?”

Lars shrugs. “Nothing.”

Jenny’s frown deepens, and her lips thin. “Then why…”

“You did it perfectly,” Lars interrupts. He’s slowly pacing parallel to the boards, feet scuffing the ice as if he was kicking invisible pebbles. He isn’t looking at Jenny or the gathered group of students, but Roman can hear them whispering next to him; he knows that Jennifer can hear them, too, and that she won’t be pleased.

“All the right moves, none of them _moving_ ,” Lars continues. “You’re like a spinning dancer in a music box – perfect every time, with no variety. But that’s what counts in skating, Jennifer. Variety. The fire, the blood. The imperfections, even.”

“That’s bullshit,” says Jenny coldly. “Imperfections are mistakes. Mistakes mean you fall, or get a lower score, or both.”

“Scores aren’t everything.”

Lars turns his back on Jenny even as she insists, “Yes they are.” From behind his thickly rimmed glasses, he watches the rest of the class, dark gaze sliding from one skater to the next. He briefly consults his clipboard, then looks up again.

“Roman Wild.” Lars jerks his head towards the centre of the rink. The whispers intensify, and Roman feels the blood rush to his cheeks as he plucks the blade guards from his skates and steps onto the ice. He can feel the others’ eyes boring into his back and feels far more clumsy than he ought to. Lars is gesturing Jenny off the ice, and she obeys reluctantly, frowning at Roman as she passes.

He pulls up in a spin-scratch, facing Lars. “Yes?”

But Lars isn’t even looking at him; he’s waving impatiently at the observing flock. “Someone hit play. Today, please!”

There’s a commotion at the boards as several of the skaters move to obey. Only Jenny stands still, arms crossed and narrowed eyes fixed on Lars.

Roman stares at their choreographer in confusion when the first up-tempo strings fill the wide rink.

“Now what?”

“Skate.”

Roman raises his voice above the rising score. “Uhm… this is Jenny’s program.”

The faintest smile shadows Lars’ lips, although it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Oh, come on. You two are on the same team, and I’ve seen footage of both of your competitions. Don’t tell me you don’t know her routine almost as well as she does.”

Roman’s eyes dart to Jenny. It’s true, in theory he knows her moves – not the other way round, though; Jenny rarely pays much attention to his routines unless he specifically asks her help with something – but he’s never skated them before. He’s also well beyond exhaustion, after Anna’s rigorous warm-up and his own performance earlier.

Lars mutters something under his breath, then barks at him, “Well, _move_!”

Roman glides towards the centre with his pulse beating so fast as if the stands were full of people; as if there were hundreds of eyes on him instead of just the class and Jenny watching.

 _And Lars Berger_ , he thinks, tossing a glance back over his shoulder to where Lars is standing with his hands in his pockets. Somehow he still manages to look imposing against the vastness of the ice, under the high ceiling. Roman swallows hard and tries to catch up with the figures of the program, painfully aware of how clumsy his start is. He gains a bit of confidence as the bass strings swell and he realises what part he should be in, moving to work up momentum for a fast step sequence.

The piece Jenny has chosen has a dramatic build-up and eases into a gradual _diminuendo_ near the middle, only to rise towards another triumphant crescendo, underscored by a synthesised pop beat and a short sequence of haunting vocals. It’s not what he’d choose for himself but it’s impossible not to get pulled into the sweeping score. He spins and jumps, dips and steps, and only almost falls once; when he comes to a halt as the music fades, ice dust on his hands and breath gusting visibly from his mouth, he’s not too badly pleased.

Jenny looks unimpressed, of course, with a hint of pity. It fades quickly when Lars nods curtly.

“Not bad.”

“What?!” Jenny blurts, and the others skaters murmur, too. “He nearly fell after the double Lutz! His footwork was sloppy, he was dropping his shoulders too much, and he went the wrong way for the Mohawk!”

“Yes.” Lars nods again, and Roman’s heart sinks. He skates towards the exit wordlessly, his ears red with more than cold. Lars stops him with a hand against his chest, still looking at Jenny.

“But he made me buy it.”

Jenny is red now, too, looking murderous. Lars doesn’t seem to notice. Roman stands frozen, held in place by Lars’ hand and not knowing where to look. “It’s an intense piece, Jennifer. You need the emotional intensity to match it. You’re all technique. You’re disciplined, you have good execution. That’s great, but it won’t score you points for artistic expression.” Jenny opens her mouth to interrupt, but Lars talks right over her. “Roman made mistakes, yeah. Mistakes you can work on. Technique you can learn. But were you watching his face? The _way_ he moved, not the moves themselves? That’s what you need, girl. Passion.”

Jenny stares at him in mutinous silence for a moment before she turns and storms off. Lars makes a derisive noise. “Flouncer,” he mutters, too low for anyone but Roman to hear; then he raises his voice to dismiss the class. They file out slowly, heads close together, with the occasional look back at Lars and Roman.

Lars’ hand – large and warm through the thin layers of his hoodie and t-shirt – is still on his chest, blocking his exit. Roman stays where he is, thinking that maybe they’ll discuss the finer points of his performance, like Lars did with the others. If he’s about to be showered with well-deserved criticism, he supposes it’s a mercy that Lars didn’t do it in front of the team.

But when he clears his throat, Lars only looks down at him as if he’d forgotten he was still there. His dark brows crease. “Do you need your dismissal in writing? Off you go.”

His hand drops off Roman’s chest, and Roman hurries past him, wondering whether the brief moment of pleasure at being picked over Jenny will prove to be worth the hours of ranting from Herself that are sure to await him. Sighing, he bends to slide the blade guards back on his skates and almost loses his balance when Lars squeezes past.

“Hey.” The hand again, dropping on his shoulder this time in a friendly pat. Startled, Roman looks up and finds those dark eyes smiling. It brings a change to Lars’ face, adding a shade of warmth that’s startling and intense from a man so cool.

“That was pretty good,” Lars says, and briefly ruffles Roman’s hair. “Well, your technique is shit, but your expression is compelling. Keep it up.”

At his obvious confusion, the grin deepens, and then Lars is striding off, the width of his shoulders nearly spanning the narrow corridor between the boards and the first row of seats. Roman stares after him open-mouthed, still clutching one blade guard; still seeing the way those lips curved in that roguish smile, the teasing warmth that was only for him. He feels an answering heat unfurl low in his belly, a foolish grin stretch his face.

Sometimes it’s terrifyingly easy, falling in love.

*

“Passion!” Jenny fumes later, in her hotel room, pulling tops out of her closet and throwing them onto the massive bed without giving any of them a second look. “I’ll give him fucking _passion_!” She’s in her bra and a short skirt. From the corner of the bed, already dressed for going out, Roman watches her with three parts amusement to two parts alarm.

“Come on, Jennifer. He’s here to help us get better.”

“He was humiliating me, that’s what.” She whirls in front of the mirror, frowning at what she sees. She doesn’t have reason to, Roman thinks; anger has always enhanced her beauty.

“Of course. I’m sure that’s his only goal. He’s probably trained for it for years.” He rummages through the pile of shirts and blouses on her bed and picks a black one, sleek and tight. “Here, put this on and let’s go already, before all the bars in this bloody hick town close.”

He throws the shirt at Jennifer, who catches it and stares down at the black silk. Then she holds it up against her chest, and Roman sees a slow smile blossoming on her reflection’s face.

“If it’s passion he wants,” she murmurs, “I can give him that.” She meets Roman’s eyes in the mirror and throws him a kiss. “Want to help me?”

Roman knows that tone, that face, and usually he’d join in with a laugh; but tonight, he still remembers the warmth of Lars’ hand on his chest, the secret smile, and something in him balks.

“Jennifer. We’re here to train.”

Her smile turns impish. “Not round the clock.”

“He’s married,” Roman warns.

She snorts. “A fact, but not an obstacle.”

“He’s not even your type,” he says desperately, driven by a strange urge of protectiveness.

Jenny laughs. “Oh, but he’s yours?”

“That oaf? No, thanks,” he scoffs, too quickly; but she’s already seen his face and spins round crowing with delight.

“He _is_! Oh, that is just too perfect. You do know that he’s totally straight, right?”

Too late for denial, but her patronising tone annoys him, so he only says, “Is he?” and grins at her smugly when her smile falters a bit.

“You’re bluffing,” she says, but it doesn’t sound completely convinced. Roman just shrugs.

Unwilling to engage – although he can clearly see that she’s burning with curiosity – Jenny waves the question aside. “Fine, whatever. Want to bet who can pull him first instead?” The impish gleam is back in her eyes; they practically dance with mischief.

“No.”

“Oh, come _on_!”

He shakes his head. They’ve competed for guys before, but this time it feels wrong. “I don’t think he’s the type who appreciates being played.”

“Oh, good grief.” Jenny rolls her eyes and shrugs into the blouse. “What, can you read his mind now? Are you soulmates already? Perhaps I should just back out graciously.”

 _Perhaps you should_. He’d never hear the end of it if he said that out loud, so he doesn’t. Instead he stands up, feigning boredom. “Whatever. Go on, make a move on him, embarrass yourself. I don’t even care. Just, can we go get drunk now?”

They do, and all that night he listens to her talking tactics, planning her strategy as if it was a host of rival skaters she planned to conquer, not just some guy. Roman smiles indulgently, chimes in where required and ignores the tingle of unease whenever he thinks of the moment by the boards, Lars looking at him with that warm regard.

What Roman lacks in ruthlessness, Jenny has in abundance. Compassion is a weakness in him where to her the potential of damage to others is at best a tolerable risk. Sometimes Roman looks at her and thinks that if they could somehow merge, graft their assets onto each other and balance each other’s shortcomings, they’d be the perfect person.

Even then, though, someone like Lars Berger wouldn’t want that person. Of that, Roman is quite sure. For someone like Lars to want someone like them, he’d have to be broken first, the core of him undone and refashioned from the ground up.

Jenny, of course, has no compunctions about doing just that.

*

“Yvonne. Again.”

Strength training is never a relaxed affair, and a week and a half at Oberstdorf have taught Roman that Miss Rosenthal’s work-out programs at the Steinkamp Centre are ridiculously lax compared to what’s expected of them here. Anna Lundquist, disgustingly in shape herself, grants them no quarter, and from the corner her husband watches darkly, never voicing approval, never cutting in. Occasionally he’ll scribble something in his notes.

Lars Berger is implacable; he seems to have never heard of breaks, and subsists on coffee and obsession alone. Roman knows he stays up nights to improve their routines, every one of them. He wishes that he could mutter and complain with the rest, calling the man insane, a slavedriver, needs-a-life, but he can’t. Professional obsession is a thing he’s well familiar with. Two years ago, after the final break-up with Marc, it was all that kept him going, once Jenny forced him to pull himself together: hours of running, lifting weights, perfecting each routine for hours, then sluicing off the sweat and uncried tears under scalding water, dropping into bed and starting all over the next day. Back then, obsession was a lifeline, keeping him from breaking down; now, it’s a habit hard to shake, and something he appreciates in others.

Yvonne Frey sways when Anna makes her hold the pose too long, sweat beading on her brow. She’s a shy girl from Castrop-Rauxel, dirty-blonde and mousy, and what Jenny calls “floppy-skinny” – meeting all the measurements and weight requirements but without the strength a good skater needs. To no one’s surprise, she falters before Anna bids her stop, collapsing on her training mat. Anna makes a humming noise, then instructs the girl to lift more weights and see her later about her diet.

They all have their various problem areas with the rigorous schedule they’re subjected to. Ludovica and Tatjana get the same lectures from Lars Jenny does: too much focus on technique, not enough on the artistic elements. Yvonne lacks muscle density and stamina; Bianca has problems with her jumps; Paul is struggling with his growing limbs, botching the easiest of balance acts.

Despite Lars’ sneers and taunts, Jennifer struggles least of them all. At twenty, she is arguably the most beautiful person Roman has ever seen, and doubtlessly the best skater. Her flexibility is better than willow, stronger and softer than bamboo; she is like liquid steel, immovably solid when she needs to be, and flowing as silky as her hair when grace is needed over strength. Her bones are long and limber and there’s not an unwanted gram of fat on her. Whether through fortitude of genes or skilful regurgitation, every ounce of flesh that covers Jenny is practised tendon and conditioned muscle; she’s turned her body into an exquisite tool, entirely bent to her own will.

Examining himself in the locker room mirror after yet another strenuous session, Roman knows that he'll never quite match Jenny's level, not because of any lack of training or dedication but due to simple physicality. He's short and compact where Jenny is all flowing arms and legs up to her chin; although his hips are narrow, he knows his shoulders are too broad, his legs too sturdy. Roman knows he'll never be able to move like she does, and he can't entirely suppress his jealousy. Lars may go on about his expression as much as he likes, but he’d gladly trade a finger for some of Jenny’s technical perfection. Maybe two. Oh, he's decent enough and getting better still, and has the trophies to prove it, but what's endless hours of sweat and pain and groaning muscles to him seems to come almost naturally to her. She always masters the moves first, she never goes red and trembly doing it, and she even _sweats_ appealingly.

Bitch.

*

That night, Roman sneaks towards Jenny’s hotel room, clutching a bottle of Prosecco and her favourite crisps. He’s determined not to let envy get the better of him; if Jenny finds out, she’ll just make fun of him. If he acts unaffected enough, she’ll help him out instead, which is a much better deal even at the expense of his bruised pride.

Even Oberstdorf’s best hotel is old-fashioned, and its rooms take a normal old key; which is why it only takes slight pressure on the door handle for Roman to open the unlocked door, and freeze.

Lars is so tall. He towers over Jenny, her head barely coming up to his chin. Strangely enough, she doesn’t seem inferior. If anything, it’s his posture that’s defensive, wide shoulders hunched, brows furrowed in unease.

“Jenny,” he says. His low voice, smoky as well-aged whiskey, holds a pleading tone that Jenny pays no mind to. It sounds very different from the way he barks at her during training. Her hand is on his chest.

“ _Larsie_ ,” she teases, melting into him. He doesn’t respond to her kiss, but neither does he pull away.

“Jenny, we can’t,” he states helplessly when she releases him. Roman clutches his bottle tighter, feeling an absurd need to conceal himself, prevent the cool condensation on the curved glass from making the bottle slip from his hand and shatter on the floor.

He doesn’t know why he should feel betrayed. Neither of them owe him anything.

“We can,” Jenny contradicts earnestly, slipping the glasses from Lars’ face. He looks oddly naked without them, and younger than Roman has ever seen him. A big hand drifts up, hesitantly cupping Jenny’s cheek. She curves her face into it like a kitten.

“Anna…”

“Need never know,” she reassures him, and slips out of her dress like a selkie shedding her seal skin, turning human just for him. The lines of her long legs and strong back, her exquisite buttocks blur before Roman’s eyes.

“Kiss me,” she whispers, against the strong line of Lars’ jaw. “Lars. You know you want to.”

Lars does.

Roman slips backwards, closes the door soft as a ghost. He _feels_ like a ghost. The ghost who has no past or future to foretell; the ghost without a purpose. He leaves the bottle of Prosecco on his nightstand and goes to bed, but ends up staring into blackness for long hours, hating the country dark, thinking he’d give anything for a tacky neon light from a downstairs nightclub about now, and drunken night owls’ drunken songs. The silence drowns him, filters imagined whispers out of nothing: Jenny’s ecstatic gasps, and the noises he’s imagined Lars might make, hungry and growly, like a shadow cat. He doesn’t cry. There is no reason to.

*

The course is not going well at all.

It’s a hot June day, and Lars is wearing a black tank top with his khaki knee-length shorts. His strong calves showing above his sneakers, the tanned curve of his shoulders and his bare arms are seriously distracting, and even his gloomy expression and foul mood are doing nothing to drag Roman’s attention back to his exercises.

If anything, the glower on Lars’ face is making his obsession worse. There is a darkness in Lars that they’ve both recognised, Jenny and he: an edge of not quite belonging, a whiff of outcast that Roman and Jenny know quite well. Jenny, who likes her bad boys, delights in finding ways to tease it out, and has been doing so frequently over the past few weeks. Roman, who’s spent his childhood under the dominance of his father’s bully spirit, tells himself that he prefers to play it safe and watch from the sidelines, where the yearning is a more distant pull, stupid and hopeless.

But it’s difficult not to feel drawn in when Lars steps behind him during ballet practice, muttering a curse and putting his hands on him to correct Roman’s position. His fingers are firm and without hesitation on Roman’s hips; a promise of strength held in check, and it’s all too easy to imagine those hands holding him in place under much different circumstances. Roman isn’t sure whether it’s the heat of the day or the physical exertion of training or even just his fevered imagination, but Lars’ body feels _hot_ against his back, warmth coming off him in waves as he shifts, pulling Roman with him.

“Like this,” he instructs impatiently, tilting him just so. Those strong fingers grip Roman’s chin from behind and turn it up, making him face himself in the mirror, and Lars tall and irresistible behind him. Roman wonders if his own skin feels hot to Lars, too.

Their eyes meet in the mirror but Lars’ gaze is unreadable, scanning Roman’s pose for imperfections and making small, sure-fingered adjustments where needed.

“Like this, Roman,” he repeats, and Roman follows, intoxicated by the sound of his name rolling smoothly from Lars’ mouth. His body shifts and flows willingly to the direction of those hands.

This is madness, he thinks, dizzy and cross with himself. More than that, it’s potentially dangerous. Despite her slavedriver ways, he likes Anna, doesn’t want to see her hurt; but even if he were the type to go after someone taken, he knows from experience that it’s pointless if Jennifer’s already staked a claim.

For the last four weeks, he’s given up the habit of coming to her room at night, knowing she’ll be busy there with Lars and unwilling to expose himself to any more first-hand demonstrations. Those nights when Lars can’t get away, it’s she who’ll come to Roman’s room; a back-up choice for entertainment, that’s all he is right now. Unlike her usual modus operandi, she doesn’t even share details, preferring to smile smugly and stretch like a cat after a good long soak in the sun.

Not that Roman _wants_ details. God, no. Still, he’s not really sure what hurts the most about this shitty arrangement: the fact that Lars – smart, caustic, reserved Lars, with his rare, dark-fire smile, whose hands Roman wants on him so bad he can’t even think when he’s around him – is shagging his best friend, or the fact that said best friend who used to share everything with him has chosen not to confide in him about screwing the guy _he_ wants.

 _What a mess_ , Roman thinks, leaning the way that Lars directs him. So stupid. It would be so much easier if he just wanted to shag the guy, and for a while he’s tried to convince himself that’s all it is: an itch, an urge, a physical weakness due largely to the fact that he hasn’t had sex for at least two months. And his options here in Oberstdorf are limited unless he wants to risk a jail sentence by trying to get into little Paul’s awful training pants.

Yes, it’d be much simpler if this was just lust, but that possibility is belied by the tug of his heart every time Lars flashes that cynical grin; the genuine affinity he feels when he hears the man talk skating; the fierce rush of pleasure whenever he manages to score one of Lars’ rare compliments, or better yet, a low-voiced tease.

This is entirely different than it was with Marc, who’s still the only real standard Roman has for measuring love. There’s none of the initial loathing that he held for Marc – back when he still thought he was straight, and tried to shield his heart against disappointment – none of the struggle he went through back then, before he faced up to the truth of what he felt.

By contrast, his feelings for Lars are vexingly disarming, and not dissuaded by reality. He _knows_ that Lars likes women. Anna’s presence and Jenny’s secretive grin remind him of that every day. Even so, he has no defences, nothing to pitch against the aching pull that makes him gravitate towards the man. Sometimes he even blames his ex for it, thinking that somehow Marc demolished all of Roman’s barriers by daring him to love him; leaving him open and defenceless when he left. Someday, Roman thinks, he’ll need to carefully rebuild them and fortify them well before he ends up truly hurt by someone dangerous to him: someone like Lars or anyone, even some gangly kid like Paul, long-legged and disarming him with a dazzling smile.

Someday, not now. In the mirror, he sees Jenny watching them from across the room. She’s looking none too pleased, and Roman suppresses a smirk. Well, while she’s looking…

He lets his foot slip and topples, half-turning, and catches himself against Lars’ chest. Lars’ hands dig into his shoulders to stop his fall, and Roman smiles up at him.

“Oops. Thanks.”

Across the room, Jenny makes an impatient noise. Do Lars’ hands linger on his shoulders a moment longer than they need to? Roman thinks so. His smile deepens.

Abruptly, Lars turns away and strides over to the stereo, turning it off. “Enough for today, guys. The final analyses for your programs are coming up, and I want none of that amateurish stumbling about you did the first week you were here, so make sure to memorise your moves over the weekend.” Groans fill the training hall as the skaters relax and start rolling up their mats.

“Oh, by the way.” Lars raises his voice to be heard over the noises of departure. “It hasn’t escaped my attention there’s a rumour going around that I might be casting some of the people from this class in my new ice show.”

The chatter changes to excited murmurs. From the corner of his eye, Roman sees Jenny smile in a way that could be mistaken for demure if you didn’t know her. Despite his own misgivings, he holds his breath. The two Czech girls are good, and tiny Bianca Jürgens is promising as well, but it’s fairly obvious that Jenny and he are the best of the class. Lars certainly isn’t going to bother with clumsy Paul Pradel or whey-faced Yvonne Frey.

Roman clenches his hands in anticipation. Not that it would be exactly easy, working so closely with Lars _and_ Jenny every day, but still…

“That rumour is obsolete,” Lars states calmly. “Both parts have already been cast.”

It takes Roman a long moment to comprehend, even as the others sigh in disappointment. His own shock, though, is nothing compared to the expression he sees on Jennifer’s face when he looks at her. For once, she forgot to guard her face: She’s looking completely stunned, staring at Lars with her mouth hanging slightly open.

Lars isn’t looking at anyone, gathering his notes and course materials together. “Any of you who want to stay and work some of the kinks out of your routine, feel free,” he continues, calm as you please. “The facilities are yours over the weekend. Just make sure you don’t overdo it, and remember to study your routines. See you on Monday.”

He strides out as if it were all nothing to him. Roman stares at his retreating back, at Jenny’s white face, and relearns something of the art of loathing. It’s all been for nothing.

“Lars.” Jenny’s voice is like whiplash, sharp and startling. “Could I have a word?”

Lars barely even turns. “In my office, if you must, Jenny. And make it quick, I have a meeting with Mr. Elsgren and my wife.”

He couldn’t make his meaning plainer, Roman thinks. Mr. Elsgren is the director of the Oberstdorf training centre. _Better things to do, little girl, with people who actually matter._ Jenny stands with her shoulders rigid, her body tight as wood. “No worries,” she says coolly. “I’ll be _very_ quick.”

 

Roman waits for her outside, clutching his gym bag, hoping against hope. When she storms out, he knows it was in vain. Her face is dark as a storm cloud, hazel eyes flashing.

“He told me not to embarrass myself!” she flings at Roman, all but spitting the words. “He said he doesn’t have a casting couch. The fucking, fucking _bastard_!”

Roman’s stomach drops low, twists in a knot. “What an arse.”

It sounds lame to his own ears, not remotely encompassing his disappointment and disgust. He isn’t even sure who it’s directed at… Jenny, who seriously thought she could sleep her way into Lars Berger’s show, Lars for letting her think so, or himself for his stupid, useless _feelings_.

Jenny’s cheeks are burning with humiliation. “I’ll show him,” she mutters. “Just you wait. I’ll show him. He can’t mess with me that way. Not me.”

Roman frowns. “Jenny,” he warns. “I know it sucks, but don’t do anything stupid, okay? He’s a renowned choreographer with a good reputation. You don’t stand a chance against him.”

Jenny stares at him, and he can almost see an idea glitter and quicken in her eyes. She smiles, a slow and dark smile. “We’ll see about that.”

“Jennifer…”

He’s interrupted by the door opening behind them. It’s Yvonne Frey coming down the steps of the centre, nervously smoothing back her hair. Roman lowers his voice so she won’t hear.

“Let’s just finish the course and go home. Who the fuck needs Ice Berger? We’ll sweep the regionals this year, and the Germans, too. When he sees us all decked out in gold, he’ll be sorry…”

Jenny’s not even listening. She waves at him, suddenly impatient. “You go on, Roman. I need to work out the kinks in my routine. I’ll see you for dinner, yeah? Order some Thai or something. No pork.”

There are no kinks in her routine, but before Roman can open his mouth to tell her so, Jenny has turned, suddenly brimming with energy, and calls out to Yvonne.

“Hey, Yvonne! Fancy staying a bit longer? I’ll show you how to do that transition with the serpentine step sequence.”

Yvonne looks up, startled. Jenny has barely spoken two words with her since the course began. “Oh… really?”

Jenny smiles, brilliant and encouraging. “Sure thing. It’s really easy once you know the trick; I used to mess it up all the time.”

Yvonne shyly returns the smile. “Uhm… sure, okay. That would be great.”

Something is terribly wrong here, Roman knows, but he can’t get a hold of what. Jennifer wraps her arm around the other girl’s shoulder and pulls her back towards the centre, chatting away merrily about something of no consequence. Over her shoulder, she turns that radiant smile on him, but her eyes are bright as brass, and equally chilly.

“See you later, Roman!”

“See you,” he replies slowly, unable to banish the obscure feeling of dread.

*

He goes back to their hotel and orders Thai as instructed, but he has no appetite and only pokes at the dishes, listlessly chewing on some udon noodles and a bit of broccoli. Jennifer doesn’t come at dinner time, or even later. He tries to call her but her cell phone’s off, and he doesn’t have any message to leave, or at least none that would not be ridiculous. _Don’t fuck up_ , he could say, or _Don’t make yourself unhappy_ , but he knows Jennifer, and knows that she’d just laugh, at best.

He turns on the television and restlessly zaps through channels, all the while wondering if she’s still with Yvonne, or if she’s gone to Lars. She might have done something irreparably idiotic, like tell Anna. Or perhaps she’s used that as leverage to blackmail Lars into meeting her; perhaps she’s actually fixing everything right now, making Lars see sense, securing parts in the ice show for them both.

Eventually, he falls asleep, still dressed, with the door unlocked, in case she’ll come.

She does. She comes in late, leans over Roman’s bed to turn on his reading lamp and slips unceremoniously into bed with him. "I need your help," she whispers.

Roman startles out of some unsettling dream and blinks at her, his mind still fuzzy. “Jenny? What…”

She leans in close and kisses him, full on the mouth, tongue swiping quick as a dart between his lips. “Roman,” she murmurs against his lips, her breath hot and damp. He smells Prosecco. “I said I need your help.”

Belatedly he realises that she’s pressed up close against him and is only wearing one of her thin silk nighties. He jerks back his head, abruptly awake, and stares at her. “Jennifer! What the _fuck_ are you doing?!”

Jenny smiles, a slow and knowing smile, and her fingers dance down the front of his t-shirt, brushing his nipples, his twitching stomach. He’s slept with two girls, the year he was fifteen, desperately trying to convince himself that his body could respond to their curves and soft, yielding flesh. Both encounters were a grand disappointment, and neither half as unsettling as this. When her fingers trace the seam of his sweatpants, he reacts helplessly, hardening almost against his will. It’s not that she’s a girl. It’s that she’s _Jennifer_. It’s that she knows him better than he knows himself, and loves him anyway; loves him _because_ of that. He’s heard people call her heartless, has fielded the occasional angry rebuke from an ex-boyfriend who called her cold, incapable of love. He knows they’re wrong. Jenny loves harder than anyone he’s known. Her love is an absolute, uncompromising thing that knows no temperance.

Strangely, the fierceness of her purpose quenches his uneasy response. He captures her exploring hands, gently draws them up to hold them cupped between his. “Jenny,” he repeats.

She’s staring at him, looking both furious and terribly lost, but he knows neither emotion is directed at him. He tugs her closer, wraps his arms around her.

“What do you need?” he asks simply.

Jenny tilts back her head and holds his gaze. “You love him, don’t you?”

He nods, helpless against her, as he usually is. The corners of her mouth twitch. “I do too.”

Roman knows better than to question that. “He played me,” Jenny says slowly; unlike this afternoon, this time the fury is controlled in her voice, wound tight and dangerous. “He played us both. But I won’t let him get away with it.” She burrows closer, hips flush against his, but this time there’s nothing sexual about it, only a need for closeness, common ground. “I need your help, Roman,” she whispers, and then tells him what she wants him to do. He listens with worry growing and coiling inside him, but the worst thing is a part of him understands; a part of him knows exactly why this needs to happen.

She doesn’t offer details, and he doesn’t ask; he nods before she’s even finished talking. “I’ll do it.”

People think him harmless, he knows. A pretty, harmless boy, with pretty, harmless goals: a medal or three, fifteen minutes of fame, love. They don’t know him at all. There is a darkness in him that matches Lars, matches Jenny; it’s why they’d be invincible, all three of them together.

Stupid Lars. He’s brought it on himself.

Jenny doesn’t smile, not this time. “You will?”

Roman nods, solemn as a vow. “I will.”

“Promise me,” she insists, clutching his hand.

Roman leans forward and kisses her on the bridge of her nose, between the eyes. “I promise.”

*

 _Between 5 and 6 pm_ , Jenny said. _An hour’s all I need._

 __It’s ridiculously easy, even. Jenny has studied Lars’ schedule intently and knows just when he won’t be preoccupied. Roman calls, and Lars feigns annoyance but is amiable enough. “Yeah, I have a bit of time,” he says, and his low drawl does terrible things to Roman’s self-control. “Just the Axel, though, okay? I don’t have time to work _all_ the issues out of your technique. You’ll need a trainer for that.”

Roman agrees, babbling thanks. It’s Saturday, and the training centre is nearly empty when they meet. Lars helps him through the motions in the ballet room, then they spend thirty minutes on the ice. By the end of it, driven on by Lars’ impatient voice, Roman is sweating and exhausted and the Axel about as flawless as it’ll get, for now. Lars is pleased, clasping his shoulder and even smiling.

“Not bad. You’ll get it perfect in time, don’t worry. Just keep up the determination.”

They walk back to the changing room in silence, Roman ahead, acutely aware of Lars’ steps behind him, his looming presence. A discreet glance at his cell phone shows him it’s 5:40. A few more minutes, then, perhaps. He doesn’t know how time-sensitive Jenny’s plan is; doesn’t even know _what_ the plan is, and now it’s too late to ask. He’s here, and so is Lars.

 _An hour’s all I need._

He spins gracefully and comes to a halt facing Lars. His heart is pounding so hard as if he’d been training all day, not just under an hour.

Lars looks confused. “What’s up?”

In the narrow corridor, he looks enormous, his shoulders nearly spanning wall to wall.

Anything, Roman thinks, anything to distract him, keep him longer. “I know,” he says breathlessly, “about you and Jennifer.”

Lars’ face goes from bewildered to a alarmed in three seconds flat. “What?”

“Oh, please.” Roman grins. “Spare me the clueless act.” He moves a step closer. “Is she as good a fuck as she claims?” he demands. Inside, he’s cringing at his own crudeness. “She’s thrown herself at me, too, but I wasn’t interested enough to find out. I bet you could do better.”

Lars’ face clouds over, darkening with anger.

"Get out of my way." He grates it out between clenched teeth. Suspended tautly between the healthy urge to turn and run and the mutinous tightening in his groin, Roman follows neither impulse, staring up into Lars’ glowering face. He’s all out of taunts.

"I won’t say it again, boy," says Lars, but when he takes another step and Roman doesn’t budge, he stops. They’re nearly chest to chest or, given the height difference, eye to sternum. Heart thundering, Roman lifts his hand. Almost clinically fascinated by his own daring, he watches it bridge the short distance between them and come to rest, very lightly, on Lars’ chest, fingertips just brushing the collarbone.

For a long moment, Lars just stares, his dark gaze flickering rapidly between Roman’s eyes as if it’s a thing of impossibility to look at both at once. Then comprehension settles in.

Roman knows how to take no for an answer. His gaydar is close to non-existent; when he makes a move on a guy, it’s usually a shot into the dark where a simple touch becomes a vast expense of courage. By necessity, he’s seen disgust on many faces. He knows how it darkens a man’s features, twisting them into something ugly.

Not so with this one. Revulsion doesn’t shadow Lars’ features. It illuminates them, etches them into acid clarity.

"You’ve got to be kidding me," is all he says; but the way he says it is enough to make Roman flinch. Lars doesn’t take care to avoid physical contact when he shoves past Roman. He muscles him aside, not as an aggressive display but as a matter of complete indifference. He simply doesn’t care enough to evade him. Roman’s an obstacle in his path, that’s all.

*

He has no clue how Jenny’s plan went, and he doesn’t care. He doesn’t sleep that night, and when Jenny knocks on his door, demanding that he open _right now, I need to talk to you_ , Roman stuffs his earplugs in and turns the volume on his iPod up as high as it will go. One of his skating playlists comes on, a mix he’s made of Jenny’s competition pieces and his own. The score for Jenny’s new routine plays first. Rising and falling with dramatic urgency, it drowns out Jenny’s banging on the door. Roman closes his eyes and lets the music sweep him up, rush him away from the unwanted, cutting memories –Jenny, warm and close in his bed; the way Lars looked at him that day on the ice when he called him compelling; the way Lars looked at him tonight. He knows he’ll never forget that look.

After a while, the noises outside stop. Roman relaxes a little, unclenching his teeth. When Jenny’s score comes to an end, he fumbles for his iPod and hits replay. It becomes clear to him, as he listens a second time and then a third, a fourth, that banishing the memories is impossible. Instead, he gives in and allows himself to wallow, here in the relative privacy of his hotel room; to reinvent the misery churning in his gut. Into the sweeping chords of strings and flute and ethereal vocals, he weaves the re-imagined patterns of events as they might have been: Jenny relenting for the sake of their friendship, toasting him mockingly as she lets go of vengeance; himself, shoving Lars back against the wall and kissing him; Lars letting him, eyes black with desire, his glasses fogging up, large hands settling possessively on Roman’s hips. Briefly he even imagines them all sharing a table at some café, laughing and arguing over skating routines, while Lars’ arm rests comfortably across Roman’s shoulders, firm thigh pressing into his, and Jenny teasing mercilessly, her bright eyes dancing.

The music stops. Roman hits replay.

Eventually the fantasies run out, as they must, and all that’s left is the music itself, and matched to it all the figures he remembers too well, precisely executed, a routine so graceful, passionate and ruthless as the girl performing it.

*

On Monday, he drags himself to practice with a deep feeling of dread, as physical as nausea. At first, though, everything seems normal. Anna sends them running in the nearby woods, and Roman hurriedly falls into step next to Paul Pradel. He can feel Jenny’s eyes boring holes into his back but he ignores her determinedly, and she makes no attempt to talk to him. It’s only when they eventually return that he sees her, doing a leg stretch by the mailbox right outside the centre, while the others push and shove back inside, laughing and bantering and dripping sweat.

Roman is the last up the stairs. He jogs right past her without giving her a glance, but quick as a cat, she’s stepped between him and the door, blocking his way as she opens it. She fixes Roman with a long, cold stare.

“You promised,” is all she says, low and fierce. “You promised.”

She slips inside before he can tell her where to shove her reminders, and his promises as well.

It’s free training for an hour; apparently Anna is otherwise occupied. Roman doesn’t quite know why that should alarm him, but it does.

It doesn’t take long to find out. Barely fifteen minutes into the session, one of the receptionists enters the gym room, looking solemn. “Miss Steinkamp, Mr. Wild? Mr. Elsgren would like to see you in his office. Right now.”

A murmur drifts round the room. Jenny rises smoothly from her training mat, not looking at Roman. He follows her and the receptionist with only a fraction of his usual grace, feeling heavy and ungainly.

Mr. Elsgren is a thin, ascetic-looking man in his early fifties, with sharp eyes and a neatly trimmed beard. Roman has met him only once, one of the first days when he dropped by the choreography room to welcome them and give them a jovial speech about the glorious tradition of figure skating.

He doesn’t look jovial now; his mouth is grim, his brows furrowed. He’s also not alone. On a chair in front of his desk, pushed to the side as if she was trying to disappear into the wall, is Yvonne Frey, her face white as milk and her hands knotted in her lap. Lars Berger is standing just inside the door when Roman and Jenny come is. His face is dark as murder.

Mr. Elsgren waves them in and leans back as Roman closes the door. “Ah, Miss Steinkamp, Mr. Wild. Do come in. I have a couple of questions, if you don’t mind.”

Roman has no idea what’s going on. He shoots a sideways glance at Jenny. She’s looking polite and puzzled. “What’s this about, Mr. Elsgren?”

“You little bitch, Jenny,” Lars grates, with so much venom Roman flinches. “You did this. You set me up.”

Jenny looks scandalised. “I beg your pardon?”

Mr. Elsgren leans forward, clearing his throat. “Quiet, please. Mr. Wild, a question.”

Roman stares at him, filled with dread and bewilderment. “Yes?”

Mr. Elsgren fixes him with sharp blue eyes. “Would you kindly tell me where you were yesterday between the hours of 5 and 6 pm?”

 _5 and 6 pm_. _“An hour’s all I need, Roman,”_ he recalls Jenny’s instructions, her voice low and intense. _“Only an hour, and no questions asked.”_

He’s too paralysed to look at her, or at Lars either. Mr. Elsgren frowns. “Mr. Wild. Mr. Berger claims that you were with him between the hours of 5 and 6 pm yesterday. Miss Frey here… claims something else entirely.” In her chair, Yvonne Frey winces. Her head is lowered, eyes glued to her own knees.

“I never touched her!” Lars exclaims angrily. “It’s all the Steinkamp girl’s doing. She set this up. For fuck’s sake, Roman, tell him!”

“Mr. Berger,” Mr. Elsgren says, still courteous but tight-voiced. “Please.”

“He did so touch me,” Yvonne speaks up, raising her head. Her face is even paler, and her blue eyes huge. “He did, it’s true, you must believe me! I was in the changing room when he came in, and… and…” Her voice gets swallowed by a sob. “I’m not a liar!”

Awkwardly, Mr. Elsgren reaches across the table and pats her hand. “There, there, dear. It’s alright. No one’s calling you a liar—“

“Of course she is!” interjects Lars angrily, and Yvonne sobs. Mr. Elsgren shoots Lars an angry glare but doesn’t engage; instead, he keeps patting Yvonne’s hand.

“—we just need to verify some facts, that’s all.”

He turns his gaze on Roman again. “Now, Mr. Wild, the truth, if you please. Miss Frey claims Mr. Berger sexually assaulted her in the women’s changing room yesterday, shortly after five pm. As you can imagine, we take such charges very seriously. Mr. Berger claims he was with you at the time. Is that correct?”

Roman’s world whirls once, twice, then everything falls into place. _Promise me_ , Jenny said, before she sent him to distract Lars. _An hour is all I need._

 _Hey, Yvonne! Fancy staying a bit longer? I’ll show you how to do that transition with the serpentine step sequence.  
_  
Yvonne Frey. Whatever he doesn’t know about her, his mind fills in with ease. A poor girl, cheap training clothes, raggedy sneakers, old skating shoes. A mediocre skater, grateful for all the help she can get. Roman wonders what illustrious training positions with what expensive trainers Jenny promised her; or maybe it didn’t take that much at all, maybe all it took was a decent sum of money.

“Mr. Wild.” Elsgren is still staring at him. Roman doesn’t dare look at Jenny, but he doesn’t need to. She’ll look confused and appalled, maybe even sickened. Later, she’ll doubtlessly wrap her arm around Yvonne’s trembling shoulders as she escorts her shaken teammate from the office.

Behind him, Lars swears softly. “Tell him the truth, Roman! Tell him I was with you!”

The memory floods back unbidden: the dark look of disgust in Lars’ eyes, the bruising impact of his shoulder as he pushed past. _Promise me._

 __Fucking, fucking Jenny. He feels the pull she has on him, feels her commanding his loyalty, even as Lars rants and pleads for truth. They tear him in two, with neither of them knowing. He hates them both.

Roman straightens his shoulders, looking at no one but Elsgren. He’s surprised at how steady his voice sounds.

“I don’t know what he’s talking about, Mr. Elsgren. I was at my hotel with Jenny. We were watching a movie.”

“You fucking little pair of snakes!”Lars fumes.

“Mr. Berger, _please!_ ” Mr. Elsgren sounds sharper now than he did before; the look he shoots Lars holds a shade of disgust, even betrayal. “Miss Steinkamp, can you confirm this?”

“Yes,” says Jenny, still sounding so innocent, so horrified. “We were watching a movie together – we often do. God, Yvonne, are you alright?” She moves towards the girl, and Yvonne cringes, tears pouring down her face. It looks remarkably convincing, Roman thinks cynically. Then again, perhaps Yvonne _is_ truly crying. He’d cry, if he were her.

“Can I go?” he asks woodenly. Mr. Elsgren nods, brows furrowed.

“Certainly. Mr. Berger, under the circumstances I think it’s better if you took the day off. Or better yet, the week. I’ll have to involve the authorities on this. I’m sure you understand. This is no trifling matter…”

Roman closes the door on it all, on Elsgren’s stern worry, on Jenny bending over Yvonne, the very picture of concern. On Lars’ furious face. He takes the stairs to the changing rooms, jams his gear into his gym bag and all but runs for the exit.

Near reception, Anna Lundquist steps into his path. She looks terrible: bags under her eyes, her skin gone pale and splotchy, hair down and unkempt. She grabs his arm. “Is it true?” she demands, in a voice like gravel. “Roman, he said you were with him. Were you?”

“He’s lying,” he says woodenly, ignoring her flinch. “He was with Yvonne.”

Anna stands frozen, like a salt statue waiting for a blast of wind. Roman pulls his arm from her grasp and flees.

*

Jenny catches up with him just as he boards his train; she scrambles from a taxi, still in her workout clothes, and dashes through the tiny station, heedless of the people she has to shoulder aside. “Roman. _Roman!”_

She bowls into him forcefully, grabbing his hand, and drags him back from the train’s steps. Her face is red, with hectic splotches high on her cheekbones and sweat beading on her brow. She isn’t beautiful at all.

“Roman, I _had_ to,” she begins, and he flings her off so hard she stumbles, nearly losing her balance.

“You had to what?” he demands. “Ruin him because he wouldn’t jump when you whistled? God, Jennifer. Why this way? Why her? Why drag the girl into it?”

Her mouth has set in a stubborn line. “She was easy. I couldn’t accuse him myself. I can’t have my name associated with a sex scandal, can’t you see? She’s getting very generously paid for it if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“You used her,” he tells her flatly. “And you used me.”

Her face doesn’t relent. “I had to,” she says stubbornly. “Don’t play the innocent now, Schatz. You knew I wasn’t going to mail him flowers or a box of puppies. You agreed.”

God help him, he did. “You’re sick,” he hisses at her. “I never want to see you again.”

Jenny’s face twists, with pain or fury, he can’t even tell. “Because you didn’t get him?” A precise pause. “Or me?”

“Fuck you,” he tells her, and pushes past her into the train. She stands on the platform staring after him, following him as he walks the narrow aisles; he can see her slender shape out of the corner of his eye, but doesn’t look at her. He picks a seat on the opposite side of the train, and eventually they move, leaving Oberstdorf behind.

He doesn’t cry. Damned if he’ll cry, over him _or_ her.

*

Weeks pass. The North-Rhine Westphalian Championships are coming up. Weeks of preparation, of sweating, crying, exhaustion and aching bones. Roman doesn’t talk to Jenny, and she’d never talk to him. Instead, they’re both working harder than they ever have, undistracted by banter and gossip. There _is_ gossip in the Steinkamp Centre, of course; the very walls are buzzing with it. The _Ruhr Report,_ along with every other paper in the state, has covered the scandal surrounding Lars Berger and Yvonne Frey, and the skating world is in an uproar over it. _Such a promising young man_ , they whisper. _Such a career. What a bastard. Poor girl. Brave girl. Well, so much for his career. I hope he rots in jail._

Lars Berger’s career is over. The entire centre is talking about it, everyone but Jenny and Roman. Not to each other, and certainly not to anyone else.

When the registration forms for the participants’ personal data and music for the competition arrive, Roman finds it no trouble at all to slide into Simone Steinkamp’s path with a winning smile, offering to take one of her many tasks off her hands and post the forms for her. It’s even less trouble to swap a page from Jenny’s and his registrations.

*

No one hears Jenny’s gasp when the initial orchestra chords float out across the ice, heralding Roman Wild’s performance. Roman doesn’t either; in the centre of the rink, he stays still only for a moment before he dips low, pushes off and begins his freestyle with a wide spin. He can imagine her face, though: mouth gaping, expression going from stunned to outraged as she begins to comprehend. The music is urgent, dramatic, haunting, lending emotion where his capacity for it fails.

Her music. It suits him well, after all.

He’s not the most confident of skaters, nor the most precise. He knows this. He also knows that this time is different. It’s as if he has somehow absorbed her moves and paired her perfect technique with what Lars called his compelling expression. He throws his arms wide as the solo oboe mingles with the bass, matches his steps to the intense thrum of the percussion. He melts mournfully onto the ice during the low-key bridge and rests there, defeated, until the pleading croon of synthesised vocals pulls him back to his feet. He does his spin sequence, whipping from one end of the rink to the other, and hears the gasps when he does two triumphant jumps in quick succession, lands soft and easy and then spins again, tighter and tighter, until he knows he’s just a blur to them, and the world bleeds into darkness and motion and grace behind his closed lids.

There’s scattered premature applause, but he pays it no mind. Somewhere, he knows, Jennifer is fuming, perhaps plotting revenge already, and he doesn’t even care. He spins again, deftly, jumps the perfect Lutz, slides on his knees and pours himself across the ice with all the passion he possesses, every move defying her, flaunting his theft. He ends with arms flung skywards, breathing hard, and the applause is deafening.

Jenny fails, of course, but not the way he hoped for: Instead of humiliating herself by trying to skate to his music, she pleads sudden illness, backing out. Even so, it goes the way he’s planned it.

At the award ceremony, the Steinkamps are loud and proud, jovial with the press, smothering their new regional champion in hugs. To them, it doesn’t matter which of them wins, as long as one of them does. The gold is cool and heavy on his chest, and the crowds are wild, cheering and throwing roses. It’s all nothing compared to Jenny’s furious white face. Roman smiles at her, slow and sweet, even though inside he’s cringing; at himself, at what they’re doing to each other, at what they have become.

*

He’s late at the open bar, then later, then the last. Somehow there’s not enough Prosecco in the world to drown out the sincere congratulations, or his own disgust. Somewhere, Lars Berger is facing an inquest on charges of sexual harassment; probably being yelled at by his wife; maybe even being left. It isn’t right, he thinks, and still he knows he won’t lift a finger to _make_ it right. It’s too late, and anyway, this isn’t about Lars Berger after all. Lars is collateral damage, a crossfire victim. It’s about Jennifer and him. It always has been.

So when he looks up from the bar and sees her pale face staring at him from across the lobby, he’s not surprised at all. He’s even grinning when he leans back, sprawling across the bar, and gives her a lazy nod. “Jennifer. Come to congratulate me, _Schatz_?”

The medal is still dangling round his neck, gratifying and heavy. He’s prepared for anything – curses, accusations, demands, even tears. Anything but what she says, tonelessly and barely moving her lips.

“She’s dead.”

Roman blinks. “What? Who?”

“Anna.”

For a long Prosecco-stumped moment, Roman has no idea who she means; he knows no Annas, and neither does she. When understanding hits, he nearly topples off his stool.

“Wait… Anna _Lundquist_? Lars’ Anna?”

Jenny makes a face, but her eyes are wide and scared. “Yes, her. Lars called me earlier. He wasn’t very…” She hesitates, then plunges on grimly. “He was mostly screaming at me, I couldn’t make heads nor tails of it, so I called the local paper. It was a car accident. She crashed. She was alone. Lars said…” She looks away, erratically brushes hair back from her temple. “He said they had an argument, before.”

Roman stares. “Was it about…?”

Jenny nods, as harshly as if the motion was a knife to cut off the truth.

Roman swallows, suddenly stone cold sober. “God, Jenny. Lars. We have to…”

“What?” she flares at him immediately, blocking his path as he makes to step past her. “What do you want to do? Go to the police? Come clean? Sell me out? Roman, did you even hear me? It was an _accident_.”

“An accident that wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t done what you did!”

Jenny shakes her head. “Doesn’t matter. It would make no difference.”

“What…?”

“Don’t you understand?” She looks disgusted with his slowness. “If you or I confessed, it’d make no difference to her death! Neither of us were involved! It doesn’t matter what they fought about, she still crashed her car all on her own! You’d just land me in prison for libel, and it wouldn’t change anything about what happened. God, did you think I _wanted_ her to die?!”

“I think you might not have minded terribly much,” Roman says, cold-lipped, and has the momentary satisfaction of seeing her flinch.

He pushes past her, ramming her with his shoulder as he stumbles towards the door. She cries out and grabs his arm.

“Let go!” Roman demands brusquely, but she hangs on, fingers closing around his elbow, and yanks him around with alarming strength. He’s about to snarl at her when he sees her face: She doesn’t cry – not Jenny – but there’s a stark wildness in her face that stops him from tearing free. He can see the bones of her clenched jaw, the hollows of her cheeks. The gleam of her eyes is not entirely sane.

“I had to!” she hisses at him. “Roman, you have to understand…”

“What?” he flings at her. “That you couldn’t have him, so you had to destroy him? That you were using me? That you’d do it again? God, Jenny, you _knew_! You knew how I…”

He breaks off, hating the sound of his voice, so desperate, so betrayed. Jenny doesn’t flinch or look away.

“Yes,” she says, almost calmly. He doesn’t know what she’s agreeing to. Perhaps all of it. Her concession, small as it is, saps the strength of his anger, leaving him dry.

“Jennifer…”

She latches onto the word like a foothold, forcing her way in. “You took my music,” she accuses, as if that mattered now. “You took my freestyle. My medal.”

Anger comes back to him at that, and Roman grasps it gladly.

“What, so now we’re even? Now we can just carry on as usual? Now we can forget you ruined a man’s career? That his wife is dead because of it?”

There’s silence for a long time. Their faces are so close their harsh breaths mingle. Roman thinks he shouldn’t want even that much of him to merge with her, but his heart isn’t in it. His strength is gone; he’s just appalled and heartsore and missing his best friend.

“Don’t leave,” she says at last – not gently but brusquely, almost commanding him. It throws Roman off kilter in a way impassioned pleas or angry defences could not. He stares at her, chagrined because of the things she’s done, the things she’s made him party to; but mostly because he does understand, little as he might want to. He isn’t even sure he wouldn’t have done the same.

People don’t ask him to stay. His mother didn’t, that day he tossed his things into a suitcase and ran outside, where Marc was waiting with the engine running. She was standing in the door, holding Florian’s hand as his little brother asked confused questions, and her eyes were bruised with sorrow, but she never asked him to stay. Marc didn’t either, later, after everything went sour. He left, came back for a while to try and mend the unmendable, then left again, and it was Roman who did the pleading, Roman who tried to hold him back. No one has ever asked this simple thing of him, _Don’t leave._

Defeat slackens his shoulders, drains the defiance from his bones. Jenny sees, of course, but for once she doesn’t gloat. She moves towards him cautiously, and her embrace is brittle, tentative.

“Roman,” she says, no more, and that is that. She’s Jenny. Jennifer Charlotte Annabelle Steinkamp. She’s in his blood, and he in hers; they share their secrets and their guilt. He can’t imagine life without her.

He lets her hold him. Eventually, he thinks as he wraps his arms around her, feels her fingers – slender, but deceptively strong – tighten in his hair, on his shoulders; eventually, surely, there’ll come a day when he and she will end; a day when she’ll no longer move him, or he no longer be necessary to her.

It isn’t this day.


End file.
